Of Giants
by Corte
Summary: When a Dwemer war-machine is dug from the snow, a shadow war is waged by an Imperial Regiment to keep it from the hands of the Thalmor, whom would seek to wield it against the Empire. Gore, violence. All that good stuff.


The approaching sound of iron-clad horse shoes hitting a pot-marked stone road were the first signs of an approaching individual, climbing the hill and approaching the crest of the hill, which stood upon by an archway of stone, leading to the cliff-city of Solitude, draped in banners of red.

Two soldiers stood, dressed in red garbs, one having drawn his bow, aiming down range of the hill as the figure approached, slumped over his chestnut horse, which appeared just as pale and withered as him, as he struggled to crest the hill with wobbly legs. Exhaling and neighing with effort, the horse collapsed, bringing its rider down with it.

"Imperial Guard!" The archer yelled, calling out to the guard below him, "Courier! Looks wounded."

"Get the healer." He commanded, simply walking over to meet the man as he came to a kneel. It would do nothing if they were to panic and rush this man, whom appeared to be clutching a tattered note from his pale, bloodied hands.

The man appeared to be wearing what remained of his scout's armour, and what remained appeared to be covered in burn, rust, and the links of his chain-mail appeared snapped, both by frost and by arrow heads that had impacted against his armour, two of which were still embedded in his shoulder blade, but had snapped at the shaft by this point. He held the letter up, slipping it into the hand of the soldier, whom looked down from his emotionless visage, and grasped it.

"G-... General," The man began, before his voice popped, and he fell limp, his hand slipping from that of the soldier's. Albeit the message was short, the message was received. Only one General was in Solitude, most likely in the entirety of Skyrim, and it had to be urgent if the man had skipped past Imperial lines to get it directly to General Tullius. That insisted urgency, and with urgency the soldier responded, climbing to his feet and running towards Solitude, just as a small contingent of healers and soldiers exited to run after the man, albeit a Priest was needed at this point. That man had gone through the darkness to get this message to Solitude, and he finally had his rest, a soldier's embrace.

The run took only a minute until he reached the door to the castle, where inside General Tullius consulted with his Legate, Rikke, over their efforts to destroy the Stormcloak Rebellion, albeit they were taking some set backs, given the fact that the Dragonborn had completley fallen off the map with a contigent of renegade Imperial Guardsmen after his defeat of Alduin. The soldier was stopped by the two Imperial Guardsmen at the door.

"General Tullius!" The soldier yelled, attempting to clamber over the interlocked arms of the two soldiers, "General Tullius! This came from the courier! He died to get it to you!"

The tall, imposing frame of the veteran soldier turned, a dismissing wave allowing the soldier to enter, as he did. The room itself wasn't impressive, four walls, several doors dividing up the quarters for the guards and the soldiers, for the small weapons room. What was impressive were the individuals gathered in the room, ranging from Legate Rikke, their Nord 'liaison', to the Thalmor operative that stood, hooded, hands on the table, to General Tullius himself.

With a swift handover, the soldier was dismissed, as General Tullius went to take the letter and open it. It took only a glimpse of the first line for General Tullius to dismiss the war council, save for Legate Rikke, whom remained, hands clutching the table as she moved map markers, as information and intelligence reports that lined up on the table began to line up.

He checked for security, before he faced Rikke.

"We have a problem." He simply stated, before he looked to the woman, back to the note, and continued to read, before he handed the note to the woman. "On the lighter side of things, the Dragonborn has been recovered. Although she has a lot to explain for herself."

"That it is, General." She looked at the note, reading the contents. A letter from the Dragonborn, known on official terms as Legate Phryx, with disconcerting news.

The Dragonborn was known, world-wide, for her ability as an adventurer, having gone and undertaken countless quests ranging from gathering cabbage to uncovering the secrets of the Dwemer race, the latter of which she took into great pride. Her recent endeavours had her peaking around fallen ruins with the Winterhold College, as well as Calcemo, the resident expert on Dwemer culture in Tamriel, or well, atleast in Skyrim. And then, poof. The girl had up and disappeared, with the rogue elements of the Seventh Legion, and they hadn't been seen for weeks, months even, since the reports only made it back to them once they found out about it.

And now, the girl had appeared again. No doubt, from this letter, with news that would be able to either wreck their entire endeavour or ruin the Stormcloak advance, which appeared to be pushing hard, after news of the Imperial Legion's famed hero having gone missing given them the morale push that they need to reclaim Dawnstar and Winterhold, as well as put the rebellion back into the hearts of Whiterun and Riften.

The Dragonborn had uncovered the physical evidence needed to suggest that the rumours of a Dwemer armoury located near the coast was real, and that the fabled technology of the Dwemer was up for grabs. No simple blacksmithed blades, the letter indiciated, but working... frames, like that of a Centurion, only smaller. They required further intelligence work, but the meaning was clear.

The Thalmor were not to get wind of this, which appeared too late at this point. They had a hand in all the workings, and even if they didn't have it now, they would more than likely get a leak of it soon. Not enough time to work around it. That explained the rogue soldiers. It was no doubt that no Imperial Guardsmen ever inclided a liking towards the Thalmor, but only to their Legion, which the Stormcloaks chose to confuse as one and the same, but very few ever rebelled.

Until now, it appeared atleast. Their numbers ranged from twenty, to ten, now that they had awoken the constructs of the facility. Reinforcements, were the whole purpose of the endeavour. And, although she was a wild card, a requisition from the Dragonborn was something no-one took lightly.

The General crumpled the letter, burning it over a brazier before he turned to the Legate, "Make it happen, Legate. Take the remnants of 8th Legion, as well as the 2nd Cohort, and get them to a staging area outside that facility. The Thalmor will most likely catch wind of this, so... for public interest, I will have to label you traitors."

He approached, a gentle hand, a small affection from a cold man, placed on her shoulder, "I am sorry. But it is the only way we can work this politically."

A small nod, and the plans went underway...


End file.
